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Introduction

In May 1939 Britten departed with Pears for America in the wake of their poet friend W H Auden. The professional association between Auden and Britten dated back to 1936 and the GPO Film Unit. It had been a fruitful one and was to remain so a little longer, but by 1942 the conservative musician had become alienated from Auden’s brand of bohemianism, and was beginning to find the poet’s penchant for verbal gymnastics (much in evidence in Paul Bunyan for example) no longer to his taste. Britten began to feel rootless and increasingly homesick. At last, spurred on by the chance discovery of E M Forster’s article on the poet Crabbe in the Spring of 1942, he and Pears decided to return home.

The departure from America coincided with Britten’s final severance from Auden’s influence, but just before he left he began work on a setting of Auden’s three poems ‘A Song to St Cecilia’. These were dedicated to him (Britten’s birthday fell on St Cecilia’s Day, 22 November), but he found himself unable to complete the work. The voyage, however, proved therapeutic; his creative imagination began to work again and the Hymn to St Cecilia was finished, as the score proclaims, ‘at sea’. So was A Ceremony of Carols. In a sense these two works represent an end and a new beginning. The Auden setting signifies the end of the appeal of tricksy rhyming, and puts a final closure to the charges of false sophistication and glib facility that had sometimes been levelled at Britten’s early work. The medieval carols on the other hand signal the return to something fundamentally English, deep rooted, familiar, and conservative in the best sense.

The Hymn to St Cecilia is set for five-part unaccompanied chorus. The three poems, ‘In a garden shady’, ‘I cannot grow’, and ‘O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall’ are linked by the litany

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

At certain junctures in his final poem Auden, like Dryden before him, refers to specific instruments—violin, flute, drum and trumpet—but Britten, having no orchestra, studiously avoids any temptation to imitate, inserting instead short isolated solo cadenzas which serve the dual purpose of suggesting an instrumental source while, more importantly, directing the listener’s attention to some of Auden’s most powerfully emotive lines. A repeat of the ‘Blessed Cecilia’ quatrain brings this concentrated and imaginative work to a close.

Recordings

Allegri's haunting Miserere is the central point in a journey through music of longing and entreaty, hope and faith. These works spanning the centuries are chosen from the heart of Tenebrae's concert repertoire. The present album contains works by ...» More

Details

In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean’s margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell’s abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

I cannot grow; I have no shadow To run away from, I only play.

I cannot err; There is no creature Whom I belong to, Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat When it knows it Can now do nothing By suffering.

All you lived through, Dancing because you No longer need it For any deed.

I shall never be Different. Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all The gaucheness of her adolescent state, Where Hope within the altogether strange From every outworn image is released, And Dread born whole and normal like a beast Into a world of truths that never change: Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds, Playing among the ruined languages, So small beside their large confusing words, So gay against the greater silences Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head, Impetuous child with the tremendous brain, O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain, Lost innocence who wished your lover dead, Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin. O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain. O law drummed out by hearts against the still Long winter of our intellectual will. That what has been may never be again. O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath Of convalescents on the shores of death. O bless the freedom that you never chose. O trumpets that unguarded children blow About the fortress of their inner foe. O wear your tribulation like a rose.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

W H Auden (1907-1973)

Nowhere else does the relationship between innocence and music collide with more creative intensity than in Benjamin Britten’s setting of W H Auden’s poetry in Hymn to St Cecilia. Books, articles and even a play have been written about the challenging relationship between these two exceptionally creative individuals. This rather intense alliance culminated in the somewhat bohemian ménage of Britten, Pears, Auden and Kallman in a house in Brooklyn, New York, in 1940. Britten was born on St Cecilia’s Day so it was hardly surprising that he had spent a number of years considering writing his own ode to the patron saint of music. He asked Auden to provide a text and the result in 1940 was ‘Three Songs for St Cecilia’s Day’, later published as ‘Anthem for St Cecilia’s Day (for Benjamin Britten)’. This was to be their last collaboration; by this point it was already clear that the friendship was waning.

Interpreting Auden’s poetry is complex, with many possible layers of meaning. Here, in the context of other writings from Auden aimed at Britten, it is hard not to read Auden’s St Cecilia text as a possible commentary on Britten himself—some would even suggest his rejection of Auden’s love (‘There is no creature / Whom I belong to, / Whom I could wrong … I shall never be / Different. Love me’). Humphrey Carpenter’s biography of Britten suggests that this poem is a commentary on Britten’s refusal to properly embrace his sexuality, keeping him locked in an artificial ‘childhood’ thereby avoiding adult responsibilities and emotions. Certainly the first section acknowledges both the intellectual/chaste aspect of music (St Cecilia) as well as the emotional/erotic (Aphrodite). Throughout the middle section (‘I cannot grow; / I have no shadow / To run away from, / I only play’), is Auden referring to St Cecilia after death, to the voice of music itself, or to Britten? In the final section, a lament, it is as if St Cecilia herself is speaking to us through the soprano solo, answering our prayer to restore and celebrate lost innocence through music. Auden may have produced this last portion of text later than the earlier sections; Britten had found himself stuck and it was only during the difficult journey home aboard the Axel Johnson that the work was completed. Paradoxically, Britten’s creative block and depression were lifted during this dangerous wartime journey and he was able to provide a celebratory response to the final lines of Auden’s text. No matter how one interprets the text, there is no doubt that Britten’s musical response is a remarkable work coming at a pivotal moment in his career.

In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean’s margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell’s abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

I cannot grow; I have no shadow To run away from, I only play.

I cannot err; There is no creature Whom I belong to, Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat When it knows it Can now do nothing By suffering.

All you lived through, Dancing because you No longer need it For any deed.

I shall never be Different. Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all The gaucheness of her adolescent state, Where Hope within the altogether strange From every outworn image is released, And Dread born whole and normal like a beast Into a world of truths that never change: Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds, Playing among the ruined languages, So small beside their large confusing words, So gay against the greater silences Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head, Impetuous child with the tremendous brain, O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain, Lost innocence who wished your lover dead, Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin. O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain. O law drummed out by hearts against the still Long winter of our intellectual will. That what has been may never be again. O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath Of convalescents on the shores of death. O bless the freedom that you never chose. O trumpets that unguarded children blow About the fortress of their inner foe. O wear your tribulation like a rose.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean’s margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell’s abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

I cannot grow; I have no shadow To run away from, I only play.

I cannot err; There is no creature Whom I belong to, Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat When it knows it Can now do nothing By suffering.

All you lived through, Dancing because you No longer need it For any deed.

I shall never be Different. Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all The gaucheness of her adolescent state, Where Hope within the altogether strange From every outworn image is released, And Dread born whole and normal like a beast Into a world of truths that never change: Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds, Playing among the ruined languages, So small beside their large confusing words, So gay against the greater silences Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head, Impetuous child with the tremendous brain, O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain, Lost innocence who wished your lover dead, Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin. O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain. O law drummed out by hearts against the still Long winter of our intellectual will. That what has been may never be again. O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath Of convalescents on the shores of death. O bless the freedom that you never chose. O trumpets that unguarded children blow About the fortress of their inner foe. O wear your tribulation like a rose.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean’s margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell’s abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

I cannot grow; I have no shadow To run away from, I only play.

I cannot err; There is no creature Whom I belong to, Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat When it knows it Can now do nothing By suffering.

All you lived through, Dancing because you No longer need it For any deed.

I shall never be Different. Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all The gaucheness of her adolescent state, Where Hope within the altogether strange From every outworn image is released, And Dread born whole and normal like a beast Into a world of truths that never change: Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds, Playing among the ruined languages, So small beside their large confusing words, So gay against the greater silences Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head, Impetuous child with the tremendous brain, O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain, Lost innocence who wished your lover dead, Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin. O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain. O law drummed out by hearts against the still Long winter of our intellectual will. That what has been may never be again. O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath Of convalescents on the shores of death. O bless the freedom that you never chose. O trumpets that unguarded children blow About the fortress of their inner foe. O wear your tribulation like a rose.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

In a garden shady this holy lady With reverent cadence and subtle psalm, Like a black swan as death came on Poured forth her song in perfect calm: And by ocean’s margin this innocent virgin Constructed an organ to enlarge her prayer, And notes tremendous from her great engine Thundered out on the Roman air.

Blonde Aphrodite rose up excited, Moved to delight by the melody, White as an orchid she rode quite naked In an oyster shell on top of the sea; At sounds so entrancing the angels dancing Came out of their trance into time again, And around the wicked in Hell’s abysses The huge flame flickered and eased their pain.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

I cannot grow; I have no shadow To run away from, I only play.

I cannot err; There is no creature Whom I belong to, Whom I could wrong.

I am defeat When it knows it Can now do nothing By suffering.

All you lived through, Dancing because you No longer need it For any deed.

I shall never be Different. Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.

O ear whose creatures cannot wish to fall, O calm of spaces unafraid of weight, Where Sorrow is herself, forgetting all The gaucheness of her adolescent state, Where Hope within the altogether strange From every outworn image is released, And Dread born whole and normal like a beast Into a world of truths that never change: Restore our fallen day; O re-arrange.

O dear white children casual as birds, Playing among the ruined languages, So small beside their large confusing words, So gay against the greater silences Of dreadful things you did: O hang the head, Impetuous child with the tremendous brain, O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain, Lost innocence who wished your lover dead, Weep for the lives your wishes never led.

O cry created as the bow of sin Is drawn across our trembling violin. O weep, child, weep, O weep away the stain. O law drummed out by hearts against the still Long winter of our intellectual will. That what has been may never be again. O flute that throbs with the thanksgiving breath Of convalescents on the shores of death. O bless the freedom that you never chose. O trumpets that unguarded children blow About the fortress of their inner foe. O wear your tribulation like a rose.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions To all musicians, appear and inspire: Translated Daughter, come down and startle Composing mortals with immortal fire.